The Day He Died
by Cadaverlee
Summary: "The day he died, I died too." Doc's struggle through life after Slick has been gunned down. Multiple character deaths, mentions of yaoi, use of alcohol and poisons,mentions of mental disorders, and multiple points of view. Doc Scratch & the Midnight Crew


The day he died I was lost. As he lay there dying, cursing Death in the face, I saw the fear in his eye – the only remaining one that wasn't sewn shut by a rather long scar. He tried his damnedest to try and hide it from me, but I saw it anyway. His eyes, and then his one eye, could never lie to me. They were the only things that couldn't; his eyes reflected his very soul when looked at right, and I found it every time. It wasn't hard, he never kept his guard up around me. Never shielded his emotions, much. It was true, the eyes were the windows to the soul.

.

The day after he died, I had my first glass of straight whiskey in a long, long time. It was the first time I had ever drunken anything stronger than the occasional cocktail or martini, and the first time I had ever drunken at home, in a very long time. Not since before I met Slick. I stared blankly up at the ceiling from my couch, not daring to move. I thought absently back to that night, mulling over the incident. I had told him to be careful; Crew or not, it was still dangerous as ever in Midnight City. Even for the notorious Midnight Crew. I still heard Slick's voice as it battered around my skull, leaving me that much more pained. 'I'll be okay, I promise. See you tonight.' he said. He broke his promise... and I never even got to say goodbye.

.

The week after he died, Diamonds Droog came a pounding on my door. He was a tad bit hyserical, but still very well kept together, as he usually is. He told me about how the rest of the Crew was handling it, and it wasn't well. They were worse off than he was; and all I could think about was 'Poor Deuce'. That kid was apt to be nothing but a mess. When I offered Droog a drink, he accepted quickly and without a backwards glance. We sat there as he tried so hard to figure out what had happened. 'What went wrong?' he'd keep asking me. They had _every _odd in their favor, so what happened? What were they missing? I wanted to tell him that I knew what _we _were missing, but I decided against it. I could tell he was thinking it too, though.

.

The month after he died, so did Clubs Deuce. Kid lost his head during a bank heist and fell victim to his own explosives. And so, at the tender age of 26, Deuce was the next to fall from the Midnight Crew. When Droog told me this, I felt as if fresh wounds had been ripped in me. My brain crashed, leaving me numb while it tried to fix and reboot itself again. The crash wasn't as bad as before, but it still hurt. I vaguely wondered if Slick was looking down at us all in pity, sitting there with Deuce and still as fiery – but peaceful – as ever. I think even he could agree that Deuce was too young.

.

Three months after he died, Hearts Boxcars left the Midnight Crew. Leaving him with no other option, Droog once and for all let the Midnight Crew rest. He knew he couldn't ask Boxcars to stay, the guy was still trying to heal after what happened to Deuce; they were like brothers. That night we emptied quite a few bottles of my strongest alcohol and he went through two packs of cigarettes. We both ended up passing out on my bar. I was silently relieved when people and gangs in Midnight City allowed the title of the Midnight Crew to itself and the remaining ex-members. Whether it was out of respect or out of fear, I wasn't sure. But I sure knew one thing; Slick was happy just as well to let the pieces lie where they had fallen. To let the cards remain face down.

†

Three years after he died, Droog finally left Midnight City as well.

"I want to live somewhere where they don't want my head on a silver plate," Droog said, standing in my doorway for the last time.

"Then go. Be happy." I said, smiling. He knew it was just a ruse, but for my sake (I think) he didn't call me out on it.

"Do you think Slick would mind me naming a child after him?"

"I think he'd be delighted, actually." I told him truthfully. Droog nodded, picked up his suitcase, and threw a backwards 'Thanks' over his shoulder before walking away for good. That was seven and a half months ago. I never did tell him that I was slipping. I still don't. But I think he might be able to tell, even over the telephone.

It's amazing who you make friends with in certain situations. To this day, I'm still glad I was able to get onto a level ground with him. We both still miss Slick like hell, but it's a little easier when you're sharing the pain. Hell, even the pain of losing Deuce is still with us, although I haven't heard from Boxcars for a few years. I'm not even sure if Droog has. Still, I worry about Boxcars as much as I do Droog.

†

Nowadays I have hardly any dreams. They're just empty black voids. I do better with coping with the pain, but I can never fully get over it. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever hear Slick's voice again, even in my mind. Droog finally found a place to settle down, and I truly am happy for him. I got in touch with Boxcars again, glad to hear that he was getting married soon. We all want to meet up. I think maybe we should wait a little longer, and from the emptiness I get from the other end of the line whenever I call Droog or Boxcars, I can tell they think so as well.

†

It's been a month since dreaming nothing and I'm starting to have nightmares like the ones I got before I met Slick. This time when I'm falling, though, I don't wake up until I hit the bottom and the... the _things_ start coming at me. I hope I'm imagining it, but they seem to get closer and closer every time. I never hear his voice anymore. I long for it. Where did it all go? Call me a pansy, but I'm terrified of what that means.

†

Slick, today I found a cute little bottle. It had a label that read 'Cyanide ' on it, exactly in your handwriting. Why did you have it, Slick? All day, I just sat and stared at it. I think... something's happening. Wait.. who am I talking to?

†

I fear I may be becoming the thing I'm am most terrified of when left to my own devices, Slick. Last week when I found that bottle, I started having headaches. This morning I come to find a message left on my telephone's answering machine. It's for 'Lord English' from my dear psychiatrist. I thought I had buried him for good, Slick. What do I do?

†

This morning I woke up to my neighbors shaking me awake, asking if I was okay. Okay? No, no I wasn't okay. My apartment is in total shambles, still. Crazy? I think so. Slick, I'm losing my grip on reality again. I forget what day it is, or how much time has passed. I'm fading in and out of reality again. Slick, help me.

†

Two months and six days ago I was admitted to the psychiatric ward at the hospital. I can't seem to remember why. Or even what happened. The doctor told me it was 'Lord English' again. Now that I think about it, I'm truly terrified of what I can't remember. Yesterday I got out, and today I am cleaning my apartment back up. I realize now that I cannot live in the past forever. Slick wouldn't want that for me.

I called Droog and Boxcars again, and I was disappointed in myself that I missed my friend's wedding. Droog found someone at least.

"What about you?" he asked me.

"What about me? I'm fine."

"That's not what the doctor said."

"Droog, I'm fine. And will continue to be an excellent host for as long as I shall live." I said in a quite confident tone.

"Right..." he replied, not sounding the least bit convinced. I didn't let it bother me.

Today, I feel quite fine. Refreshed, actually. I might not date other people after Slick, but I'm still going to be happy.

†

Tick.

†

Tock.

†

Tick..

†

To...ck...

.

Oh, Slick. How wonderful it will be to see you again. For almost five years, I've longed for you daily. I want you to know how much I've missed you. No, I'm not being crazy again. I fully understand what I'm doing. I think I understand that maybe... perhaps... I was meant to find that small bottle of cyanide. I know you would have wanted me to go on, but... I can't. I just can't. Droog and Boxcars are so happy now, and little Slick is going to grow up to be a fine gentleman indeed. I know you can see him, and I know you're smiling down on him. I know you're going to be sad when I meet you there, but I'm just being the most excellent and gracious of hosts that I can be, by leaving this world with my sanity still intact. By leaving and knowing that my work here was truly done. Droog and Boxcars will see to it that everything is in order when I'm gone, I knew it – and so did they – all along.

"Just one more thing... I love you, Spades Slick." I whisper to that photo of you, the melancholy one that you said you always hated. But you let me keep it there, on the wall, anyway. I know I'm dying now; at least, my body is. My vision is starting to blur drastically, and I can slightly feel my body spasm as I draw my last few breaths. The cyanide is taking it's affect on my body... and ...then...

.

Ti..ck...

.

T..oc...k...

.

...k...

.

_The day he died, I died too. _

* * *

><p>Well... here it is. Rewritten after my computer &amp; LibreOffice turned the file corrupt and I flipped my shit. Sigh...<p>

Some quick explainations:

1) They are all human.

2) There is OOC... I think. I don't know how to fuck these people would react in that kind of situation. But I'm sure lots of alcohol would ensue. Come at me.

3) Doc is suggested to have a form of either multi-personality disorder or schizophrenia; or both. Thus the mentions of 'Lord English' (hint hint... spoilers)

4) The random dots in the middle of everything were suppposed to be special characters. 1st was supposed to be a spade, 2nd a diamond, 3rd a club, and 4th a heart. Everything after was supposed to be a white bullet/circle. Why the fuck FF won't let me post them, I have no clue.

5) This, unfortunatley, was fueled purely by negative emotion. It's not the greatest thing in the world, and I'm sorry if you don't like it. I wrote this for _me_, **not for you.** Again, come at me.

dA version: .com/art/The-Day-He-Died-292605409


End file.
